


Can You Play me a Memory?

by alexandriakeating



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: A Bit of Fluff, A big of angst, Anger, Grief, Illustrator Steve, M/M, Natasha's a pretty great bro, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Romance, Steve can't do this flirting thing, Steve does his best to help, pianist Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 01:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4985575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexandriakeating/pseuds/alexandriakeating
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve had first seen him several years ago at a bar. Cigar smoke curled in the air and danced with the notes his fingers coaxed from the piano. His jaw tight and eyes closed. </p>
<p>Steve never got to compliment him.</p>
<p>The next time he saw him, it was at the same bar. His hair was a shaggy mess and his cheeks were speckled with scruff. He was sitting and tossing back shots of vodka as if he didn't want tomorrow to exist. He never went close to the piano. It might have had something to do with his lack of a left arm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can You Play me a Memory?

**Author's Note:**

> Gah! It's my first fanfiction for this ship! It's always a bit of a nerve-wracking experience when you write for a new ship. It's like stepping out of your comfort zone. It's probably the only stepping out of your comfort zone I do.
> 
> This idea came to me while I was at a piano concert at my school. I was sketching away in my notebook when this idea popped up and I couldn't shake it off. I listened to [ "The Piano Man"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gxEPV4kolz0l) by Billy Joel on repeat and lots of Rimsky-Korsakov for this. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

 

Steve had first seen him several years ago at a bar. Cigar smoke curled in the air and danced with the notes his fingers coaxed from the piano. His jaw tight and eyes closed as he focused intently on the melodies he created—or recreated. Steve was never sure how to word that.

He never got to compliment him.

Steve wasn't even supposed to have been in the bar. It was before Nick had banned cigarettes inside, and his asthma was giving him hell, but when the man had sat down and started with Billy Joel, he'd felt himself compelled to stay until he was wheezing and hacking. He had stumbled from the bar, tossing his money on the counter and reaching for his rescue inhaler.

Steve had loitered outside the bar in the blue neon light of the open sign for several minutes. His numb fingers, he could stand. His running nose, he could stand. His chapped lips, that's what Carmax was for. However, once his lungs stung from the cold has if he'd breathed in his mother's pin cushion, he knew he had to go.

He'd all but forgotten the man when he saw him six years later at the same bar. He almost didn't recognize him. His hair was a shaggy mess and his cheeks were speckled with scruff. He sat precariously on a stool at the bar and tossed back  shots of vodka as if he didn't want tomorrow to exist.

Steve still didn't talk to him.

What did you say to a man you saw perform six years ago and never interacted with?

_Besides_ , he scolded himself, _I'm here to catch up with Sam while he's in town_. He'd be heading back to D.C. at the end of the week. There was no time.

The man never went close to the piano that night. He just sat and drank. It might have had something to do with his lack of a left arm.

Steve wasn't sure what to make of it when he saw him again next Friday in the same spot doing the same thing in what looked like the same clothes. He sat down at his normal booth and ordered a pint of Guinness. As he sipped it, he kept a close eye on him; the corner of his own eye the only thing obstructing his view. Steve pulled out his sketchbook and pen, telling himself that the only reason that he was drawing Gruffy Piano Man was that he was the only other person in the bar at four in the afternoon besides himself, Maria, John, and another man he had never talked to but had overhead two weeks ago saying that he would be heading back for another tour at the end of the month. He was not drawing him because of the sharp line of his jaw or the curve of his neck or the muscles straining against his shirt.

Gruffy Piano Man raised his hand and flagged down the bartender. He gestured at the glasses before him.

Maria shook her head. “Sorry. I can't keep refilling you in good conscience. I'm cutting you off.”

“The fuck you are.” His voice was garbled and strained.

“I will call Mr. Fury if you insist on acting up,” she snipped, her voice hard and leaving no room for argument.

Gruffy Piano Man ground something unintelligible out.

Maria's brow quirked upwards. Her lips still sat in a hard line. “This is your only warning. I'd be more than happy to call you a cab if you need it.”

He growled. “Dammit. I'm fucking fine.” His fist thumped against the counter, rattling the empty glasses.

It may have been a more threatening gesture if he wasn't swaying under the alcohol's influence, but anger raised Steve's hackles. He tucked his pen inside his sketchbook and shut it. The hair on his arms stood on end as he clamped his jaw and watched out the corner of his eye, ready to jump up and intervene.

“Man, learn to fight your battles. I get the heroics, but try to be smart about it,” he heard Sam reprimand in the back of his head like a tiny angel.

Well, if that angel didn't want him to interfere, God help him and may his mother forgive him, he's going to side with the devil on this one.

“Sir, I can call the cops or a cab, which will it be?”

“Listen here, you fuckin'—” he slurred out as he stumbled off the bar stool. His elbow knocked one of the shot glasses to the ground. The shatter was short and sharp.

Steve was on his feet now, too. No matter how talented or hot Gruffy Piano Man is, that was not going to fly in his books.

Gruffy Piano Man had a good foot on him and was at least twice as wide up close.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

Steve grasped his shoulder and spun him around. “I don't think you should be talking like that to a woman, nor anyone for that matter. Now, we can get you a cab if you take a deep breath and calm down.”

Shrugging his hand off, Gruffy Piano Man hollered, “What the hell you gonna do, fuckin' punk? Ya think you can—”

He didn't get to say anymore. His mouth was occupied by Steve's fist.

One second he was standing and glowering. The next, he was slumped over the bar and out like a light.

Steve shook his hand, rubbing his reddening knuckles. That was a new experience. These usually ended with him curled up on the ground before he managed to get a good punch in. Maybe it was just how drunk Gruffy Piano Man had been, but he liked to think that he was just getting better at fighting.

Maria cocked her head. “Good punch,” she said shortly. “I'll call this in. Want a refill?”

Steve shook his head.

“Bad Reputation” blared from a phone sitting on top the bar. It must have been Gruffy Piano Man's.

He looked between Maria and the man before looking back at the phone. The Caller ID read:

Black Widow.

_Well._

He gave one more glance to the man slumped over the counter. He pinched his eyes shut and answered the phone.

A woman spoke. Her voice low and harsh, but it was tinged with concern. “Finally, Barnes, I've been—”

“Hi—um, hey,” Steve stumbled out. “My name's Steve.”

She was silent for a moment. “Steve? Where's Barnes—or James, Bucky, whatever the hell he introduced himself to you as?”

“I'm assuming you mean long hair, scruff, and giant chip on his shoulder?”

“Yes. Is everything all right?”

“He's more-or-less passed out on the bar.” He winced, glancing at his split knuckles.

“Fuck. Which one?”

“Shield.”

“I'm on my way. Stay with him, please.” It was an order, not a request.

“Yes, ma'am,” he found himself saying instinctively.

It was quiet on the other end before, “I like you.”

He gaped at the phone, but Black Widow had already hung up.

“So?” Maria prompted. The work phone rested on her shoulder.

“He's got someone coming for him.” Perhaps a girlfriend. Steve ignored the odd churn of his stomach at that thought. This was not the time nor the person.

She gave a curt nod and hung up, leaving to attend to new customers and clean up after old.

Steve eyed Gruffy Piano Man, worried that he might slip from his awkward leaning position, before grabbing his sketchbook and sitting on the bar stool next to him.

Black Widow turned out to be a small red-head with the gleam of murder in her eyes who could part crowds like Moses parted the Red Sea with just a look.

Though, he shouldn't be one to critique size. She had a good inch or so over him. Perhaps compact was a better word. Every part of her body screamed used and unwasted as if she knew every muscle and just what it could do.

“Steve?”

“Yes.”

She turned from him to give Gruffy Piano Man—or Barnes, perhaps, that's what she'd called him along with James and Bucky—a stern look. Her face was flat and unreadable. Reaching out, she snuck her fingers into his hair—

Girlfriend. Or sister.

—and yanked his head back.

_What?_

He grumbled and winced, muttering in his catatonic state, as she set him down properly on the stool.

“C'mon, Barnes. I'm not cleaning up after you. You can get your damn ass up.”

“Nat,” he breathed out.

“Yes.” Her eyes narrowed slightly at his swollen jaw and blossoming bruise. She looked at Steve.

He stuffed his offending hand behind his back.

The slight cock of her head was the only indication that she saw and understood it. She pulled her shoulders back and stepped closer to Gruffy Piano Man. His head lolled against her chest. “Do I need to ask for the circumstances that required you to knock him out or should I trust they were justified and I don't need to repay the grievance?” Her eyes were hard and merciless.

Steve swallowed and ran his fingers through his hair. He was simultaneously scared shitless and brimming with admiration. He wished he had that sort of command. Maybe people wouldn't laugh when he was ready to fight.

She wasn't laughing.

“He was being rude to Maria,” he answered simply.

The slightest breath left her nose in a quiet huff. She looked down at Gruffy Piano Man. “Let's go, Barnes. The meter's running on the cab.”

She grabbed his phone and stuffed it into her pocket. Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, she hooked her arm securely around his waist. “Up you go,” she said.

“Do you need help?”

“I got it.”

The response took him aback. He had been expecting denial, but not in a form that didn't question his capabilities. “Let me at least get the door.”

Her eyes studied his face for a moment. Nothing had changed in her expression when she looked away, but her eyes seemed softer when she said, “Fine.”

Snatching his sketchbook and stuffing it into his coat pocket, he dashed ahead and held the door open.

Black Widow dragged Gruffy Piano Man outside and tossed him into the back of a cab, cradling his head against her shoulder.

He muttered something under his breath. His fingers clung to her shirt.

The corner of her lips pulled down slightly as she patted his shoulder and pried his fingers from her. “Just real quick. For me.” She knocked on the plastic between the back and the driver.

“What?”

“What's the meter at?”

“You're looking at 32 dollars, missy.”

She turned to Steve. “How far away is the Eagle Heights Apartment Complex?”

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “About two blocks. Easy walking distance. That's my place.”

“You heading back?” It was more of an observation than a question.

“Yes.”

“Climb in. You can split the fare there.”

Steve swallowed and stared at her for a moment.

Black Widow arched an eyebrow. “Coming, Steve, or are you eager for a chilly winter walk this afternoon?”

“Yeah.” He nodded and fished out his wallet. Pulling out a twenty, he stuffed it into her hands.

“That's a bit much.”

“Think of it as compensation for the bruise,” he said, walking around the cab and climbing in on the other side.

She smirked and climbed in. “Natasha.”

Steve paused at the name and then smiled. He gave the address to the driver, and they were off.

Gruffy Piano Man mumbled under his breath as he pulled his coat tighter around him. His head drooped on his chest before flopping down on Steve's shoulder.

He would deny ever jumping at the sudden thump of weight against him. He would also deny the heat flushing his neck and ears when Gruffy Piano Man nuzzled his neck and wrapped his arm around Steve's, clinging tightly to him.

Steve looked over at Natasha, wide-eyed.

She smirked. “He's affectionate when he's drunk.”

“I thought he was an angry drunk.”

“That, too. This is more post-drunk.”

The cab pulled to a stop in front of his apartment complex. Steve found himself hauling Gruffy

Piano Man out of the cab and onto the sidewalk while Natasha paid the driver. He fought to steady his breathing against the sharp pains constricting his lungs.

“What floor?” he asked.

“First. I can handle it,” she said, swooping in and prying the clinging man off him without batting an eyelid as she supported nearly all of his weight.

“I'll walk with you.”

“I can handle it,” she repeated, her voice firm.

“Well, I'd like to know his apartment number so that I can make sure he's still alive tomorrow morning.”

Her flashing eyes took him in quickly. “107. And please do. I have work in the morning.” With that, she turned around and dragged Gruffy Piano Man off to his apartment.

Steve didn't get much sleep that night. He was too busy focused on the man two stories below him and his probably-girlfriend.

* * *

The next morning he planned on checking in on Gruffy Piano Man after getting his mail, but his agent, Peggy, called in about moving the deadline for his newest project up.

“I'm so sorry, Steve. I tried to tell them that it would be a tight squeeze and putting too much pressure on you.”

“It's fine, Pegs. I get it. I'll get the illustrations to you by the end of the day.”

Things got postponed, and he didn't manage to get out of his apartment and away from his drawing table until well into the evening. He had an acute sense of letting Natasha down, and an intense fear that she'd know and confront him about it.

Though, when he did make it down to check his mail, it turned out the Gruffy Piano Man was up and alive at the very least. He must not have slept his hangover off. His eyes were dark and hollow. His hair was hanging around his face in long, greasy strands; the back of it was balled up in a giant, frizzy knot. The swelling on his jaw had gone down, but the skin was mottled purple underneath his scruff.

He looked like he'd been hit by a bus.

But, he was alive.

Gruffy Piano Man looked up from his empty mailbox at Steve. His eyes were glassy and glazed with sleep. He blinked; his jaw tight and brows knitted together. A flash of light flickered behind his eyes, and Steve felt an overwhelming sense of how beautiful and lively they were before they dimmed again.

He pointed his mailbox key at him. “You're the guy from the bar.”

“Uh,” Steve stuttered out stupidly.

“The one who hit me.”

Steve shuffled a foot back, getting into a more comfortable stance in case he had to hit him again.

“Yes.”

Gruffy Piano Man sighed and nodded his head slowly. He looked at the ground. “I wanted to apologize.”

“What for?”

“I usually don't drink—I try not to drink like that. I did—and said—some fucked up shit.” His eyes studied the keys in his hand. He dug the tip of one underneath his thumbnail.

“I'm not the one you need to apologize to. Maria is.”

His brows puckered. “She the bartender?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know when she works?”

Steve glanced at his watch. It was nearly seven. “She's probably getting off now. She's off Sundays, but she works ten to seven every other day.”

“What bar is open at ten?”

“It doubles as a restaurant during the earlier hours.”

He nodded and still refused to look up.

Steve cleared his throat. “You're girlfriend's pretty intense, but she seems to really care for you.

Granted, I'd be scared if I were you. She didn't seem too happy when I answered your phone.”

Now, he looked up. His eyes were wide, and his mouth parted slightly. “Girlfriend?”

“Natasha.”

He laughed at that. It was weak but rich, and Steve wanted more of it.

“Nat's not my girlfriend. Overprotective, mothering, and yes, scary ass friend, but not girlfriend. I'm gay as fuck. Shitting rainbows and all that.” He looked sheepish as he scratched the back of his neck with his key, his eyes downcast. “Ah. Sorry. Bit much.”

“I'm Steve,” he said, holding out his hand. He willed his heartbeat to slow when Gruffy Piano Man took it. He was sure his pulse was pounding out in Morse Code through his skin: single and interested.

He opened his mouth with what looked like a 'J' on the tip of his tongue before he clamped it shut. “Bucky—it's a nickname,” he explained without prompting.

He let go of Steve's hand, and he missed the smooth, warm skin.

“It's good to have a name. I've honestly been calling you Gruffy Piano Man since last night.”

That earned him a chuckle. “So, I've been on your mind since last night?” The tip of his tongue licked his bottom lip before his teeth bit down on it.

Wait.

What?

No.

There was no way Gru—Bucky was flirting with him. This wasn't something that happened.

So of course, he had to be a little shit.

“Yeah, every time I wash my hands and feel my knuckles burning. I'm confused for a moment, then I remember, 'Right. I sucker punched the idiot in the bar I then had to help drag back home.'”

Bucky flinched. “Yeah.” His fingers traced his jaw. “Sorry again. I didn't mean any—” He dragged his hand over his face. “I've had a rough few months.”

Steve shrugged as he made his way to his mailbox. There _was_ a reason he had come down here.

“It's okay. I'm not going to lie, the idiot's pretty cute.” The words spilled from his mouth as he riffled through junk mail that he shoved back into his box with a grunt.

It took a moment for them to register with his mind. When they did, it felt like he'd been doused in icy flames. His eyes flickered over to Bucky.

He wasn't putting any effort into hiding his smirk as he leaned against the rows of mailboxes.

“Really?”

Steve pinched his mouth shut, fighting back the squeak that was lodged in the back of his throat.

“Why don't you throw the junk mail away? It's not going to disappear if you keep leaving it there.”

“Because I can delude myself in thinking I have mail for a few seconds,” he says offhandedly before horrible diverting conversation with, “What happened anyways?” as he pointed to his lack of left arm.

Bucky pushed himself off the wall. His jaw clenched. “Car accident.”

“Sorry. I shouldn't have pried.” He ducked his head and stared at his feet. _Great going, Rogers_. “I'll get going.”

Steve walked past him, but he paused for a moment and tossed over his shoulder, “If you talk to Natasha, tell her I did check in. A bit later than I had planned, but I did.” And with that, he scurried up the stairs to his apartment.

He took a moment to lean against his door in the entrance hall and breath deeply. His heartbeat echoed in his ears.

“Way to flirt, Rogers, way to flirt,” he muttered under his breath as he shuffled to his desk to start up his next project.

* * *

 

There was an actual letter in his mailbox Monday. 'Steve' and his mailbox number were scrawled sloppily on the envelope. There wasn't a postage stamp.

Fighting the urge to tear it open right then and there, he tossed the pile of junk mail into the recycle bin and headed to his apartment. He ripped it open with shaky hands.

_“Steve—_

__

_I'm honestly not entirely sure why I'm writing this. No, that's a lie. It's because I told Nat about talking with you at the mailbox and she's glaring at me over Skype and threatening to cut off my last arm if I don't write you a letter._

__

_“Just write the man a damn letter. He deserves at least that much.” That's what she said._

__

_So, you have a letter now._

__

_Shit. I'm not good with this sort of thing._

__

_Maybe I'll see you at the bar this Friday. I apologized to Maria. If not, you can come over to my place for a beer if you want to get together sooner. Nat says you already know where I live. I'm not out much, so come over whenever._

__

_Bucky”_

Shit.

He reread the letter just to make sure he'd gotten it right the first time.

He had.

He looked at his watch. It was probably too early to head over there now. He had just gotten the letter. What was he going to do? Knock on Bucky's door and say, “I got your letter. You said to come over, so I did. I hope you meant immediately.”

Maybe not immediately, but he didn't want to wait until Friday to see him again.

Wednesday was good, right? He could wait until Wednesday and not look desperate.

 

Shit.

This was his life, pining after a guy he had knocked out in a bar.

* * *

He only managed to make it to Tuesday before he was knocking on Bucky's door at eight that night, tired, bleary eyed, and desperately needing a break.

There was a thud and muffled cursing behind the door. It swung open.

Bucky ran his fingers through his hair, pulling the strands loose from his bun. He took a deep breath and let it out in a measured pace. He wore a navy sweater and gray sweats. The white collar of his undershirt just peeked out around his neck. He had shaven; his cheeks were smooth and the bruising was the slightest, yellowed discoloration. His cheekbones stood out stronger, and Steve had to force himself to breathe.

“Hey.” He smiled.

“Hey,” Steve returned with a smile of his own. “You still offering that beer? I could use one about now.”

“Yeah. Sure. Come in,” he said, nodding repeatedly and stepping out of his way. “Want anything to eat? I could scrounge up something, just a snack or something. You've probably eaten already.”

He shook his head. “Just a beer's fine.”

Bucky gave a curt nod and gestured to his living room. “Have a seat. I'll be right back.”

His apartment had the same layout as Steve's. His couch was a faded dark purple; the fabric peeling back at the seams to reveal the tan foam inside. There was a long gash in the back giving a clear display of the wooden frame. A dented, pale wood coffee table sat in front of it; water rings stained the surface.

A flat screen hung on the wall, its volume low as Wheel of Fortune aired. A lamp with a tilted shade sat on the floor in the corner, plugged in and blazing. The light tossed the room into an off-kilter shadow. Boxes littered the edges and center of the room. Packed. Stacked. Opened. Tossed about. Tissue paper hung from one.

The room felt unused and homey at the same time.

Steve turned and spotted a gleaming, dark wood piano. It stood straight and proud against the wall. The twin doors above the keys were open to display the three metal rods inside that ran parallel with the keys.

He stepped towards it.

The piano was miraculously clean. Not even a picture frame or book sat on top of it. The wooden bench was tucked in tightly with it. Compact and regal. It briefly reminded him of Natasha.

Steve poked at the doors; his brows drawn tightly together. _Oh_. His brows relaxed. It was a player piano.

“It's my grandmother's.”

He jumped and turned around.

Bucky had the necks of two beer bottles wrapped in his fingers. He walked over and held them out to Steve who gratefully took one. Bucky took a small sip from his and then tilted the neck to point behind Steve.

“The piano. It's my grandmother's. She used to teach me on it when I was younger.”

He nodded and looked back at it. “It's beautiful.”

“Yeah.”

“It's a player piano, right?”

“Yeah.” His voice was tight.

“Do you have the scrolls for it?”

Bucky hooked his heel around on of the legs and dragged the bench out. The wooden legs screeched against the floor. He flipped the top up. Inside sat rows of rolled up perforated parchment.

Steve nodded.

He let it fall shut with a bang and pushed the bench back with his bare toes.

“What kind of music?”

Bucky smirked, but it was tired and barely crinkled his eyes. “Piano music. Violin and clarinet are a bit hard for this old girl.” He gave the piano a loving tap with the back of his hand.

Steve smiled and glanced out the slits of the blinds. It was dark outside.

“Chopin, Mozart, Beethoven, the usual,” Bucky explained. “But, she loved the Russians. Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff and Rimsky-Korsakov. She loved to play them on rainy days. I'd sit on the bench and watch the keys and try to follow them. I used to pretend it was me playing. Playing at Carnegie Hall.”

Steve turned his eyes back to Bucky.

A soft smiled pulled his lips, but his eyes were hard. His thumb scraped at the beer's label, peeling the corner back. He sighed and took a gulp. He looked over at Steve and studied him for a moment. “You have the damnedest blue eyes I've ever seen, you know that?”

His jaw dropped slightly before he clacked it shut and took a sip of his beer. He focused on looking out the window again willing the fire on his face to cool down.

Bucky cleared his throat. “Uh. Hm. So, what do you do anyways? Job, I mean. We can move to the couch. If you want.”

Steve nodded and followed him to the couch.

He plopped down on the right end, resting his elbow on the arm. His legs stretched across the floor in front of him. He took another swig from his beer and raised his eyebrows.

“Um.” Steve sat down on the edge of the left side of couch. He pulled himself in tight out of habit, resting his elbows on his thighs. “I'm an illustrator.”

“For, like, children's books?”

He nodded. “Yes. Some other books, too. Young adult novels. I've done a few covers, but those are rare. They're usually renditions of pictures for a romance novel.”

“Still. Do you like it?”

Steve shrugged and leaned back into the couch, Bucky's relaxed posture rubbing off on him. “I get to draw every day. Of course I do.”

“That's good. Doing something you like is good. I hope it stays that way for you.”

He looked over at Bucky. He was back to peeling the label off his bottle; his brows knitted tightly together. His lips pursed in a thin line.

“Yeah,” he breathed out.

They lapsed into a tense silence, and it made Steve twitch. He was fine with the silence but not the rigid strand that flowed through them.

Steve turned his eyes to the TV. He watched Wheel of Fortune for a moment before blurting out, “The Lone Ranger.”

“What?”

“Huh, the puzzle, that's the answer,” he stammered pointing to the show.

They turned to watch it. In two more turns, the answer was displayed: The Lone Ranger.

“Nice job.”

“Thanks. Um...”

“Yeah?”

Steve took a deep breath. Now he was picking at his beer label. “Please tell me if I hit something sore, but, um, I just wanted to say, I saw you perform. Several years ago. At the bar. You were great. I was hooked once Billy Joel started. I couldn't see the whole thing though. Asthma and all. There was a lot of smoke.”

And now he was rambling now. His heart pounded against his rib cage, and he forced himself to steady his breathing. He waited for an outburst. For anger. He knew it was a tough topic, anyone could tell that, and he'd just trampled all over it. He risked a glance.

Bucky didn't look angry: he looked forlorn and exhausted. His arm drooped over the side of the couch, and his legs seemed to just hang limp in front of him. He’d buried his head deeply into the cushions. His jaw was tight, and his eyes were unblinking.

“I'm sorry,” Steve started to say.

“Don't be.” His voice was rough and strained like he was choking back tears. “I'm glad you enjoyed it. I can't say I remember the concert, though. I did so many then, trying to get somewhere.”

He looked out the corner of his eye at Steve. “Happy you liked the Billy Joel. It became a bit of a signature after some woman requested it at my first performance.”

Steve nodded and took a sip of his beer, not sure what else to say.

Bucky stuck his empty bottle between his legs and fully peeled off the wrapper. He wadded it up and chucked it at Steve. It hit him squarely on the temple.

“No frowning and getting awkward. I was enjoying this. Where's the punk who knocked me out?” His smile would be lazy if the corners didn't seem to droop in exhaustion.

Steve looked at his beer and huffed a laugh. “He's sleeping. Only rears his head when people act like bullies.”

“So you just go punching out every bully you cross paths with?”

He shrugged. “I don't like bullies.”

“You're something else, Stevie.”

His heart tightened at the nickname, but it felt good; it felt warm and comfortable and...home-y.

“So, does that make me a bully?”

Steve looked at Bucky. He glared at his toes as he stretched them wide and then curled them into a ball.

He shook his head. “No. A drunk man who made a stupid decision when he was upset with the world, yes. But a bully? No. I don't think you could ever be one.”

He smiled for real at that. It flashed widely across his face as he looked up at Steve.

Steve had to remind himself to breath. Again. Was this going to be a common reminder around

Bucky? _Yes_ , he told himself. _Yes, it would be._

“Thanks, Stevie.”

He nodded and turned back to the TV.

The sat in silence until ten that night.

Steve had never felt warmer and safer than he had in those hours. Still riding the comfort, he feel asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.

* * *

Bucky and Natasha were sitting at the bar when Steve arrived Friday afternoon. And the next. And the next. All the way until the summer air plastered his hair to his forehead, and sweat dripped down his back and pooled just above the hem of his jeans. He enjoyed catching up with everyone's week. He loved talking with Natasha and even her “friend” Clint whenever she dragged him along. He really did.

But, there was something about those late nights he'd spend at Bucky's, having a beer and sometimes struggling to hold it because his finger and wrists were sore. Bucky had insisted on given him a massage when he'd finally told him what was bugging him along with a stern reprimand to take care of himself. His fingers had been warm and strong. The pressure of his knee pressed against his thigh as he sat sideways on the couch had been comforting. The worn softness of his sweats against his hand had been soothing. Steve still wasn't sure he had managed to fight back the blush when Bucky had rested his hand on his upper thigh so that he could massage it or when Bucky's fingers hovered over his skin a moment too long after he finished so that the touch felt like a butterfly's wings, but Bucky never mentioned it if he had.

He had been pretty red himself, though, so maybe they were just being courteous to each other.

Steve loved the quiet lull of the TV and the gentle buzz from the beer. The shared blanket in the winter when power went out in the building had been a highlight. The steady breaths. The soft voices. The unpressured conversation.

It was perfect.

But, sometimes he wished Bucky would put in the music and let the piano play so that they could both imagine it was him.

With everything going well, it came as a bit of a surprise when he arrived at Shield one Friday in June to see Bucky stumbling to the center of the room, glowering at Nick whose hands were out to him, palms out. Natasha stood a few steps behind him, her arms wide as if to catch him when he ran. Maria was stuffing ice into a Ziploc bag. She wrapped it in a towel and handed it to a man curled up at the counter. Glasses were pushed back into his curly hair and the left side of his face was rapidly swelling and bruising. A few families having an early dinner were watching scandalized.

Nick pointed to the door. “Out. Now. You can make the choice for yourself or I will personally remove you from the premises,” he said, his voice low and steady. “We don't need you making trouble for us or yourself. Got it? Don't make a stupid ass decision here.”

“Barnes. James, c'mon. Let's go.”

“Nat?” Steve whispered as he stepped closer.

She glanced over her shoulder and offered him a strangled smile.

“What?”

She shook her head.

He nodded and stepped around Bucky until he was in front of him.

Bucky's eyes were wide. His mouth screwed. His fingers were clenched tightly, and there was blood on his knuckles. His body was rigid. He panted; dangling strands of hair quivered under his harsh breath.

“Buck? Hey, it's me. Steve.”

He blinked. Glassy eyes turned to him.

“Let's go home, Buck.”

He blinked again. Recognition poured color back into his irises. “Stevie.”

“I'm here.” He stepped forward and clamped his hand around Bucky's bicep, giving it a soft squeeze.

His face crumbled. He looked to the ground; his hair hiding the tight lines of pain on his face. His breaths were still harsh and shuddering.

Steve's heart sunk at the glistening dampness on his cheeks.

“I'm a fucking bully, Stevie. I'm a fucking bully.”

“Hey. No, you aren't. You're making fucking stupid decisions. You're upset and you aren't thinking straight.”

“I've never thought straight in my life,” he muttered with a shadow of his smirk.

Steve let a breathy laugh pass his lips. “Let's get you out of here and sobered up, okay?”

Bucky nodded and held up a finger. “First.” He stumbled over towards the guy at the counter.

Nick looked ready to throw him out if he misstepped. So did Maria and Natasha for that matter. Steve felt a bit out of place as he just watched with concern.

The man at the counter looked ready to either run for the hills or get the first punch in.

Bucky stopped a few steps away. “I'm sorry I let my temper get away from me. I'm still working through some shit.” He waved to his shoulder and missing arm. “Others being...others playing doesn't sit right with me yet.”

He nodded in acknowledgment of the apologize.

Natasha stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Bucky's waist. “Steve?” she called out over her shoulder.

He rushed forward and wrapped Bucky's arm around his shoulders. He rested his arm over Natasha's.

Together, they walked him out of the bar. He hissed at the sunlight and shoved his face into Steve's neck.

He fought against the shudder rolling up his spine at the warm breath ghosting over his bare skin.

“Do we need to call a cab?” he asked.

Natasha shook her head. “We can make it. I'd rather not spend the money, and I don't want him in a car now.”

Bucky only groaned and buried his face deeper into Steve's neck, hunching over awkwardly to do so.

Rolling her eyes, Natasha tugged on Bucky. “Come on, Barnes. You don't want to break Steve.”

He only pulled away from her and tightened his grip around Steve's neck, yanking him into his chest. “I'm sure he can hold my weight.”

He definitely shivered at that. He peeked over at Natasha, hoping Bucky's chest was hiding most of his blush.

Her smile proved that it wasn't. She crossed her arms and kept walking. “I told you he was an affectionate drunk.”

“After the angry part,” he snipped back.

She sighed. “Yes.”

They managed to herd Bucky into his apartment and untie him from Steve. He flopped into his bed.

Natasha tugged off his shoes and set them neatly against the wall, tucking his socks inside them.

“You sleeping in those clothes?”

He only grunted and rolled onto his back. He flung out his hand and tried to grab Steve.

“No.” Natasha grabbed his hand and tucked it under the blankets she pulled up over him. “You have that interview tomorrow, remember? I'll put some water and Tylenol by your bed for the morning. Now go to sleep, Barnes.”

After she set up for his hangover in the morning, they left his apartment.

“Why don't you call me Rogers?” Steve asked.

“Why would I?”

“Oh God. I never told you my last name? I've known you for nine months.”

“Yes, and you don't know mine.”

“What is it?”

She smiled, coyly and frighteningly. “It's classified.”

“Well, Natasha Classified, I guess we part ways here,” he said, tapping his hand against the banister of the stairs.

She raised an eyebrow at the name. He was graced with a smirk. “You're not so bad, Rogers.”

“You're not so bad yourself, Classified,” he said and started up the stairs.

“Steve?”

“Yes?” He paused and looked down at her.

She wasn't looking at him. Instead she studied the wall across from her intently. “Stop by tomorrow, okay? I'm heading out of town, and I don't know how this interview will go.” Her voice was soft, and there was the slightest crease between her eyebrows.

Steve was struck by just how much she actually cared for Bucky.

“No problem. Let you know the results?” he offered.

She smiled. “Yes.” Then, she turned on her heel and left.

* * *

Steve wasn't sure when Bucky's interview was, but he figured it wouldn't hurt to just wait until his normal visiting hour. He'd even grabbed a box of donuts from the shop down the street that he always raved about. A celebration if it went well. A consolation and pig out if it didn't. Win-win.

Piano music spilled through the cracks of the door when he arrived. He cocked his head and swallowed, suddenly nervous. He wasn't sure what to take this as.

“Bucky?” He rapped his fingers against the door.

Nothing.

The melody played on.

He rapped again; his knuckles barely grazed the wood.

Nothing.

Steve reached for the doorknob. His fingers froze, stretching taut around it. He took a shuttering breath and grabbed it.

It was unlocked.

“Bucky, I'm coming in,” he said as he stepped in.

The apartment was dark. Stripes of dying sunlight filtered in through the blinds.

Steve stood blinking in the doorway for a moment until his eyesight adjusted.

His grandmother's piano was playing on its own. The sheet rolled as the keys lowered and raised themselves with ghostly intelligence. Bucky was draped over the couch. One leg propped up on the coffee table next to a near empty bottle of vodka. His head lolled over the back of the couch; his eyes stared listlessly at the ceiling.

“Hey, Stevie.” He didn't look over at him. His voice was gravelly and rough; he choked over the words as if he had been crying.

“What's going on?” His voice was quiet as he took one step closer to the couch, worried that he might startle him like he was an injured animal.

Bucky raised his glass above his head. “Toasting how fucking useless I am now, that's what.” He brought the glass to his lips and poured the entirety of its contents down his throat. Sitting up, he set the glass down and refilled it with what was left in the bottle, licking the last few drips that had dribbled down the neck.

He clutched his filled glass and leaned forward. Resting his elbow on his knees, he stared at the floor between his feet. “Who needs a pianist when they can play themselves anyways,” he grumbled.

Steve stepped around the couch and set the box of donuts down on the coffee table. Cold fear seized his heart, squeezing to the near popping point.

“Bucky?” He knelt down in front of him. Slowly, he placed his hands on Bucky's knees.

“I could play this. I was fucking eight and I could play this.”

Steve paused to listen to the lilting notes. “It's pretty. What's the name?”

“The Song of India. Rimsky-Korsakov. I learned it for...for her. I played it for her. I had to. She loved it. And now I can't. I'm such a fuck up. I can't play. I'm fucking broke. No one will fucking hire a guy with one arm.”

He went to toss back the last of his vodka, but Steve grabbed it first. “No,” he said sternly, setting it away from him on the table. “You don't need anymore. You need to drink some water and get to sleep. We can talk things over when you're sober, okay?”

Bucky's face screwed up as if he'd sucked on a lemon. His eyes were red and puffy as tears carved paths across his cheeks. “I'm sorry, Stevie. I'm sorry I'm such a fuck up.”

“Hey.” He clapped his hands on either side of his face and forced him to look him in the eye.

“Listen to me. Don't you say that. You aren't. Maybe, maybe you fucked up. Maybe you fucked up a shit ton of times, but that doesn't make you a fuck up. You understand?”

Bucky bit his lip and nodded slowly.

“Good. I hope you remember that in the morning. Can you make it to bed on your own or do you need help?”

“Help,” he wheezed.

Steve nodded and stood up, dragging him up with him. Slowly, they shuffled into his bedroom.

Bucky slouched onto the edge of his bed and kicked off his shoes while Steve pulled the wrinkled and twisted tie off from around his neck. When Bucky couldn't coordinate his fingers to undo the buttons of his shirt, Steve did that as well.

“I'll go get you some water.”

He nodded.

Bucky was still sitting there when he returned with a full glass of water and obediently drank all of it. He lay down, complaining about the sloshing in his stomach, and fell asleep almost instantly.

Steve refilled the glass and grabbed a couple Tylenol, following Natasha's actions. He, however, added a trashcan next to the bed.

Uncomfortable with leaving him alone for the night, he curled up on the couch and turned the TV on. He put the volume low so that he had to concentrate if he wanted to make out the words. The piano had stopped playing, and Steve found himself missing it's melody. He grabbed a multicolored afghan that was hanging from one of the many still unpacked boxes and wrapped it around his shoulders. After a moment of inner debate, he ate one of the donuts, telling himself that Bucky would understand one donut to satiate his gnawing hunger pains.

Steve wasn't aware he fell asleep until he was blinking crusty goop out of his eyes. The TV was still on, and the coffee table was untouched from last night right down to the undrunk glass of vodka. Sunlight streamed into the apartment, and he found himself sweating uncontrollable under the weight of the afghan. Tossing it off, he sat up.

The strong bite of coffee greeted his nostrils.

“Sleeping beauty has awoken.”

Steve rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes, wiping away the last remnants of sleep, and looked over the back of the couch.

Bucky leaned against the kitchen counter and cradled a mug to his chest. He smirked and took a sip. His mouth relaxed, and he breathed out a sigh of satisfaction. He gestured towards Steve with his mug. “Love the hair. I think I want to see that style on you a bit more.”

He dumbly petted his hair. It was sticking up all over the place. The back had been pressed to stand over the top of his head. The sides and bottom were plastered to his skin with sweat. His bangs were knotted. Why would Bucky—oh.

Steve ducked his head when he felt the heat flush his body.

Bucky shuffled over. His hair was pulled back neatly. His face freshly washed; the hair around his temples was still wet. He hadn't changed out of his clothes from last night. His undershirt was no longer tucked in, though. His trousers were crinkled, and his big toe poked out a hole in his left sock. He plopped down on the sofa. “There's still some coffee in the pot if you want any.”

“Ah. No, I'm good. There's donuts,” he said lamely, pointing to the box.

“Shit! Really? Stevie, you're too good to me,” he exclaimed. He leaned over and set his coffee down on the table. He pulled the box closer and opened it. He frowned slightly. “There's only eleven.”

“I had one last night. I was hungry.” Steve rubbed the back of his neck.

Bucky chuckled. “Just wanted to make sure you got your money's worth,” he said as he grabbed one and stuffed it in his mouth. The noise he made was somewhere between a content hum and sinful moan.

Steve's blush was back.

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

Bucky finished off his donut and sucked the icing off his fingers, letting each one rest in his mouth a fraction of a second too long. He wiped his hand off on his pants and picked up his coffee again.

He took a sip and leaned back into the couch. “For last night. I remember what you said. I understand, but it's hard for me to believe it.” He studied the liquid inside his mug as he swirled it around.

“To believe?”

“That I'm not a fuck up.”

“Buck, I don't know what you see when you look in the mirror, but—” Steve took a deep breath and plunged in, “But, I see a very talented and courageous man who's too hard on himself. He's strong and resourceful and caring. He's amazing.”

He was quiet for a moment. “But I can't play anymore.” He chugged the rest of his coffee and set the empty mug on the table.

“Bucky, that—”

“No, Steve, you don't understand. That's all I had. That's all I knew. It's still all I know.”

He sighed and dragged a hand over his face. He pushed back the lose strands of hair that had fallen from his bun. “I'd been playing since I was five. Working scales and arpeggios. Mrs. Petrov would snap my hands with a ruler until they were red and cracked when my placement wasn't correct.”

He gave a huffed laughed; it was bitter and dark. “They'd called me a prodigy,” he scoffed. “All that is is a word to describe someone who works their ass off to get good at one fucking thing only to lose it before anything happens. Then, they're stuck with nothing.”

He paused and stared at his hand. He flexed his fingers, curling them into a fist and then unfurling them. “Don't put all your eggs in one basket and shit, right? That's all I had going for me. I'd moved up from dive bars to fucking Carnegie Hall—almost. I'd been on my way to playing fucking Carnegie Hall, quite literally. I hate driving in New York. I hate driving all together, really. But one day. One fucking day I decided, why the hell not? And everything went down the fucking toilet.”

Steve was unsure of what to say. How do you respond to that? He reached out and squeezed Bucky's thigh, hoping that showed his presence, his sympathy, his solidarity.

“Who ever heard of a pianist with one arm?”

“Well,” Steve cleared his throat, “if Rick Allen—”

“He plays the fucking drums, Stevie. Give me a break. They're completely different instruments. If I had played cello, would you tell me that?”

Steve shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. “You set up a pedal system with the bow. Using your foot to play.”

“You aren't on the piano—”

“No. Cello. But, my point's the same.”

Bucky shook his head and let it fall back against the couch. “If it was a general arm movement, even just hand, I'd say you were on the right track. But, piano requires fingers. There aren't any prosthetics with that kind of dexterity. Even if there were, I couldn't afford any of them.”

“I heard Stark Industries is looking for applicants to test their new stuff.”

“I'm good. I don't want to be a lab rat. If I can live my life without people poking and prodding around in me, I'll be good.”

He chewed his bottom lip and pulled at a piece of loose skin. “Maybe you could do a multi-media concert. Divide a piece up. Do parts with one hand and then combine it. Play one of the parts live.”

“Look, Steve, I appreciate the sentiment, but not many pieces could survive that kind of mutilation,” Bucky said. He patted Steve's shoulder and stood up, grabbing his mug and heading to the kitchen.

He watched him go, watched the slump of defeat and aggravation in his shoulders. “Write your own.”

“What?” The mug clattered in the sink. He turned to him; his body was tense and his eyes wide.

“Write your own. Do your own pieces for that,” he continued. He shifted onto his knees and leaned over the back of the couch. A hesitant smile pulled at his lips. “Write a song that you can play with only one hand. If you write it then you'll have to be able to play it. Just think. You could be such an inspiration to kids—”

“Whoa. Slow down.” Bucky held up his hand. “Inspiration? I don't want to be an inspiration.” He shook his head. His lips were tight and tilted down at a steep angle. “I just wanted to play. I wanted Carnegie. I wanted to not get in a fucking car accident. I want to still have my arm and not be stuck here!” he shouted.

Silence resonated throughout the apartment.

Steve blinked. His breath lodged in his throat. He coughed and climbed off the couch. “I'm sorry,” he said with his eyes to the floor. “I overstepped. I should go. I'm sorry.” He ran from the apartment and headed towards the stairs.

“Steve. Steve! Hey, you little punk, come back here! Hey.”

A hand grasped his shoulder and spun him around. He almost fell off the third step, but Bucky steadied him.

“Listen. You don't get to put up with my shitty problems and be helpful while I act like an asshole and then apologize. Okay? You don't have nothing to apologize for. I just—I'm still getting used to this. I'm still accepting that I can't—” he cut himself off and swallowed. His eyes turned to the ground. “Look. Please. I'm sorry. Come back, okay? You can give me more ideas. How's that sound?”

Steve breathed again. A smile twitched the corner of his lips. He stepped off the stairs and stood next to Bucky. “I can do that. I'm good with ideas. Got them churning out a mile a minute. Like, you could work something out to play with your feet, like an organ or one of those giant piano mats. You could get someone else to play with you. One hand each. You could teach me until you—”

Lips cut him off.

A warm hand cradled the back of his neck and held him close.

The smoldering hearth in his chest flared to life. Steve reached out and snuck his fingers through Bucky's belt loops; he yanked him closer. Bucky stumbled forward into him, and their teeth clacked together.

“Eager, much?” Bucky whispered.

“Yes. Now kiss me again.”

Bucky's lips ghosted over his and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, then his nose, his eyes.

“My lips, ya jerk,” he grumbled

“Ruining the mood, punk,” Bucky snickered before kissing him.

Steve pulled back. “Hold on.”

Bucky groaned and rested his forehead against Steve's. “What? Are you taking a selfie?” he asked incredulously as Steve took out his phone and turned the camera on.

“I promised Natasha a progress report.”

“You're such a dork.”

“Jerk.”

“Punk,” Bucky whispered as he pressed a kiss to Steve's check just in time for the photo.

* * *

Steve scrubbed his hands over his face and let out a strangled yawn. This new sci-fi novel by Jane Foster was a bitch. He adored it to pieces, but he struggled with putting just half as much detail in his illustrations as she put in her descriptions.

Standing up, he arched backwards and pushed his hands up over his head. He stretched out his fingers and curled his toes before letting his body relax. He twisted at the hips, trying to loosen the tight muscles of his lower back.

His apartment door opened. Keys jangled dimly. “Steve?”

He smiled.

_Their_ apartment. Bucky had moved in just over a week ago, and it felt so much more like home now.

“In here.”

Heavy boots thumped against the wood floors. Bucky turned into the living room, dusting flakes of snow off himself. “I’m getting this stuff everywhere. Fuck. It’s a mess,” he grumbled.

Bucky peeled off his coat and tossed it onto the back of the couch. He tore off his glove with his teeth, chucking it somewhere in the general vicinity of the coat, and shook out the melting, white flakes from his hair.

Steve blinked. “You cut your hair.”

He froze before running his hand through his hair nervously. It was short and no longer parted down the middle, but swept to the side. Dark strands hung down and brushed the middle of his forehead. His jaw stood out starkly in sharp angles now, especially when he clenched it and the muscles flexed as he swallowed.  

“Yeah,” he whispered.

“Wow.”

The corner of his lips pulled down. His eyes focused on his muddy and soaking boots. His fingers played with the short hair at the base of his neck. “Is it that bad?”

Steve frowned briefly before stepping forward. He grabbed Bucky’s hand a placed it on his hip. He buried his fingers in Bucky’s hair and rubbed his thumbs over his cheeks in soothing circles. “Well, I’m going to miss having something to hold on to.” He smirked and slid his hands through Bucky’s hair and clasped them together behind his neck. “But I like it.”

Bucky smiled and gave him a quick peck before pressing their foreheads together.

“What prompted the change?” Steve questioned.

He felt Bucky shrug.

“New beginning. A job I don’t hate. Trying to sit down at a piano again and experiment.”  He pulled Steve closer until their hips bumped together. “A great boyfriend who’s a punk.”

“Jerk.”

“A very supportive, strong, and loved punk.”

“You’re a very loved jerk, too,” Steve whispered back, unsure of why he felt compelled to keep his voice low.

Bucky chuckled and kissed him again. “How’re the illustrations going?”

“Fucking hell! The details!”

Bucky pulled Steve down on the sofa in between his legs and smiled into his hair as he listened  to Steve passionately rant and rave about the complexities of the story that he just _couldn’t get right_.

As he continued talking, Steve couldn’t believe this had become his life. He wouldn’t change a thing.

But, he did hope that someday, Bucky’s playing wouldn’t only be a memory.

**Author's Note:**

> Song playing on the piano: [ "Song of India"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0mJplUbHXck) by Rimsky-Korsakov. 
> 
> I would like to give a big shout out to [ chrisevansleftboob](http://chrisevansleftboob.tumblr.com) (also known as [ InterruptingDinosaur](http://archiveofourown.org/users/InterruptingDinosaur/works)) for all her help and being an amazing beta. (Ya'll should check out her stuff. I highly advise [ Under Paper Skies ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4480916/chapters/10186283)).


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